"Bandit's New Job - 3"
By fluffstory (https://pastebin.com/u/fluffstory)

URL: https://pastebin.com/RBw7HRn2
Created on: Saturday 9th of November 2019 10:15:04 AM CDT
Retrieved on: Friday 30 of October 2020 11:23:52 AM UTC


FractalFluff, February 28, 2014; 21:53 / FB 18663
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(A fragile hugbox house, built on a graveyard of forced feminization, psychological abuse and lasting emotional torture.)

BANDIT'S NEW JOB pt 3

(Yeah, so I wrote another one of these. WHAT.)

>Be a fluffy shelter operative
>Gainfully if penuriously employed at the Nyu Fwenz no-kill fluffy shelter.
>(Known to the staff as No Friends, No Future, and various other unflattering sobriquets.)

>Be really bleaked out right now.
>Epic rain + crappy sewer system + crappier flood defences = flooding
>Low-lying areas of your town are swamped
>People are flooded out.
>The shelter is on higher ground but you're still affected, in a way:
>You don't care much for fluffies, but seeing dead foals floating past in the gutter, while their mother wades after them, bawling —
>Well, that gets to you a little.

>Shelter is more sparsely populated than you've ever seen it.
>You're the only fluffy shelter in the borough, normally getting drop-offs from all over
>Now all the strays and ferals have been drowned.
>Most of your charges are unwanted pets, though
>Which implies that people are using the flood to get rid of their ponies.
>They don't even have to drop them here; do pickups
>Can't be bothered.
>"Accidentally" locking them out when heavy rain is forecast
>"Forgetting" to let them out of their saferooms as the river rises.
>Laughing about it in the pub afterwards.
>Not much you can do.
>The law might have changed, but people haven't; and cops are people.

>There are only two new residents.
>You thought you were inured against fluffy suffering
>But they are breaking even your hardened heart.

>The beloved companions of old Mrs. Nelson from down the road
>She waded through the flooded streets with a pet carrier containing her only friends in the world.
>Her bungalow's floors are under an inch of water already
>And it's going to get worse.
>Not safe for fluffies.
>Plus, her health has taken a turn for the worse
>Harder to look after them.
>Her niece wants to put her in a home.
>Can't afford to kennel them
>Almost in tears as she hands them over.
>Tell her about the shelter's policy in cases like hers:
>She can leave them with the shelter for 30 days
>You won't re-home the fluffies yet
>She can reclaim them when things get better.

>You both know that things are probably not going to get better
>Not for a 73-year-old with diabetes and an oxygen cylinder parked in the back bedroom
>But the fiction will help her endure the separation more easily.

>The new residents take it hard as well.
>Rusty and Winkie (short for Periwinkle).
>The fluffy equivalent of an old married couple
>She's powder-blue pegasus, he's a handsome russet-red earthie
>One of those mini-Clydesdale types:
>Taller at the shoulder and blockier than the average fluffy, with a handsome ruff of chest fluff.
>About as macho as a tiny pony with downy-soft fluff and a cartoon voice will ever be.

>He's so protective of the mare it hurts.
>Not without cause: Mrs. N. told you she was about a week and a half preggo.
>To make matters even worse, she's injured;
>A thick bandage covers her lower abdomen.
>Dog attack, right after she got pregnant.

>"Next door's bastard Alsatian," Mrs. N. told you, sorrowfully dabbing her eyes with a lace hankey.
>"Fucking gormless owner let him out with a bloody lead on." She sighs.
>"Course, after the fluffy was safe I kicked the fucker in the bollocks and hosed him down with my mugger spray. Sent him yelping back indoors."

>"Pretty brave of you. Not sure I'd want to kick an Alsatian in the balls."

>"Not the dog, the owner. Silly arse. It's his bastard fault, not Ripper's. "

>"I... guess?"

>"'Course, he little snitch dobbed me in. So then I've got the O.B. on my doorstep, haven't I? Officious litte sods, all assault this, prior conviction that, illegal CS-gas the other. Fucking pigs."

>"Uh... yeah..."

>When they understand that their "Mummah" has left them
>The fluffies grieve for hours.
>But they're different to the brats and ferals you normally get.
>No tantrums, no shit-strikes, no bellowed demands that she return
>Not even any "HUUHUUHUU!"-ing.
>They cuddle and weep quietly.

>The volunteer vet comes over to check them out
>The mare seems to be healing well, but she's lost most of one udder.
>The other is mangled, but might be functional.
>It's not clear whether she'll be able to feed her babies when they come.
>She's devastated.
>You try to reassure her, explaining that there are other mares who'll help out
>And that humans can give her foals formula.

>You introduce her to one of the shelter's fluffy foster-mothers
>Jemmy, a loving but infertile mare.
>Jemmy can't conceive or produce milk
>But TLC is as vital to fluffy foals as nourishment
>And she has a heart as big as all outdoors.
>She's reared countless orphaned or abandoned litters.
>She tenderly hugs the injured mare
>"It otay, Winkie, hoomins gif baybehs miwkies awwa time. Baybehs nu cwy, haf happeh tummehs, gwow big an stwong!"

>Periwinkle still doesn't understand.
>All she knows is that she might be unable to make enough milk for her babies.
>She doesn't howl or fuss, she's just terribly sad.
>Most fluffy mummahs are upbeat and jolly
>Singing to their "tummeh babbehs", telling them how much "wuv" and "miwkies" they'll get
>Her mummah songs are quiet and subdued.
>She sings about loving good babies and hugging them
>Doesn't mention milk at all.
>If you can't convince her that her foals will be fed, the stress is going to end her.

>Damn. Pretty much the only decent fluffies you've ever met, and this happens to them.

>You put them in a nice, spacious pen, with plenty of toys
>Just the two of them.
>Don't need any rowdy roommates pulling off the mare's dressing
>Or busting her stitches while trying to hug her better.
>You set their pen next to Bandit's, so she can see all the comings and goings
>She's not the brightest Crayola in the packet
>But hopefully she'll understand:
>Bandit is nursing other fluffies' babies, and they're doing fine.

>There are three litters of foals who need wet-nursing right now
>Nine babies all together.
>Bandit's pretty busy
>Foals latched onto his hormonally-induced "milkie places" day and night
>They're constantly chapped and sore
>Especially since three of the babies are getting their teeth.
>Bandit's continual mumbling has taken on a new tenor
>As well as the now-customary mantra of "Miwkbag wuv baybehs, Miwkbag gif wotsa miwkies, gud baybehs dwink Miwkbag's miwkies..."
>You now hear a counterpoint of "Pwease, teefie baybehs, nu gif owwies! Miwkbag gud fwuffy, nu gif owwies tu miwkie pwaces!"
>And sometimes the odd yelp or brief outburst of sobbing
>Followed by pleas for his leggies' forgiveness:
>"Sowwy, weggies! Miwkbag nu mean fow cwy! M-Miwkbag happeh fwuffy, wuv giffin miwkies tu babbehs!"

>Bandit is being blackmailed by his legs. It's complicated.
>Actually, it's Norm.
>Norm works the shelter's night-shift
>He wasn't the one who decided to put Bandit in leg restraints
>Or come up with the idea of giving him hormone injections and Yummah Mummah Kibble.
>But he was one to convince Bandit that his legs would abandon him again if he didn't willingly allow the foals to nurse
>And smile while he did it.
>Norm and that weird chick who works Tuesday nights spent an entire shift messing with Bandit's mind
>Now he very seldom says anything other than the Milkbag Mantra
>Except when he gets bitten.

>"Yip! Sowwy, weggies, nu weave Fwuffy — Miwkbag wuv baybehs, Miwkbag gif wotsa miwkies tu gud baybehs..."

>Music to your ears.

>After a couple of days of this, though, Winkie doesn't seem to have caught on
>She's in a sort of trance most of the time
>Too distressed to take anything in.
>If it wasn't for Rusty, you're pretty sure she'd never eat.

>You're distracted from your concerns by a new arrival
>It's Lyle, one of your recidivists.
>A runty, owlish-looking pegasus with three legs and one-point-five wings, Lyle appeals to a certain kind of person.
>Unfortunately, he makes mincemeat of that kind of person.
>The people who want to mother a mutilated fluffy are generally idealistic and a bit mimsyish
>They cope poorly with Lyle.
>You've re-homed him at least four times in the past year alone
>He seems to have the fluffy version of Tourette's
>That and a death wish.
>After ekeing what entertainment he can out of giving special huggies to various household implements
>Violently attacking any houseplants they might have
>And crapping in numerous imaginatively-selected locations around the home
>He runs away.
>Since you're the only shelter around, he ends up back here.

>If they don't bring him back before then.
>They usually bring him back.

>"I know he doesn't understand what it means," the last Nyu Daddeh told you, parking a giggling, fidgiting cardboard box on the counter
>"But I've got very strong opinions about... certain lifestyles." He almost spits the last word.
>"I'm a happily-married man," he goes on.
>"Very happily married for 12 years, and I will not abide being repeatedly called... what this THING keeps calling me!"

>"What did he — ?

>The ex-owner turns on his heel and stalks off without answering you.
>Before he can slam the door, Lyle pops up like a Jack-in-the-box
>"BUH-BAH, FAGGIT!" he screams.
>The door slams.

>"You're gonna get yourself killed, Lyle," you tell him as you lift him out.
>"YAW MUM!" barks the fluffy happily.
>He gives your arm an affectionate hug, and beams up at you.
>You're never sure whether Lyle genuinely doesn't know what he's saying
>But he's definitely not right in the head.
>He's lucky you're a no-kill operation.
>Several staff members would dearly love to make an exception just for him.
>You think he's sort of cool, in a messed-up way.
>With his ragged fluff and a spiky red mane, he looks kind of like a fluffy punk.
>The random swearing completes the picture.

>You give Lyle the once-over
>Put him in a cage, situate him a good long way from any other fluffies
>Especially Rusty and Winkie.

>Ten minutes later, you come back to find that he's jimmied the catch somehow.
>You hear Rusty politely introducing himself to someone, and groan.
>Sure enough, Lyle is now on the other side of the room, standing up on his hind legs
>Hooves pressed against the side of —
>(yes)
>The pen where Rusty and Winkie are held.
>You have your hands full with a couple of foals that you're putting in with Bandit
>You try to make the switcheroo as quickly as you can
>He's not screaming or trying to get in, just babbling in a friendly way.
>Unusual.
>You try to get the last two foals detached so the new ones can have a go
>("Yeep! Teefie baybehs bitin Fwuffy! Nu puww teefie baybehs!")

>"Nice mistah?" asks Rusty.

>"'Sup, Rus?" you say distractedly.

>"Why dat mawe nefah tawk tu Fwuffy? Aww she efah say am 'Miwkbag gif gud miwkies.'"

>Lyle cackles.

>"Dat nu mawe!" he contradicts Rusty. "Dat a stayun."

>"Nu am stawwi-yun, nyu fwend Wywe," says Rusty, without any trace of condescension.
>"Wook, haf miwkie pwaces, am feedin babbehs."

>"Dat fwuffy am stayun. Fwuffy knoh fwom befow. Him bad-miwkies fwuffy!"

>Rusty gasps with horror.

>"Lyle, don't scare Rus," you say.
>One of the foals has just widdled everywhere.
>You're now trying to mop up pee and juggle four increasingly fussy babies.
>Lyle ignores you completely.

>"Waffow stawwi-yun haf miwkie pwaces wike mawe?" asks Rus.
>"Boy fwuffy nu can gif miwkies."

>"Hoomins," explains Lyle.
>"Hoomins gif miwkie-pwaces, make bad-miwk fwuffy gif miwkies!"
>He guffaws heartily.
>"Hoomins efen gif pwetty haiw-fingy, fow make bestes miwkies-mawe!"
>He's evidently impressed with the poetic irony of Bandit's punishment.

>You finally get the next couple of foals settled on Bandit's belly.
>You hastily return the last pair to Jemmy and go to recapture Lyle
>Putting him in a cage with a better catch.
>Rusty is looking at Bandit in a speculative sort of way.
>You hope he isn't planning a murder attempt.
>Other fluffies have attempted to get at the one-time milk bandit
>The fact that he's "reformed" (quite literally) cuts little ice with fluffies.
>But when you go to check on the couple later on, Rusty diabuses you of this notion.

>"Nice mistah... am dat funny wittew Wywe poni wite? Dat fwuffy giffin miwkies tu babbehs, him stawwi-yun?"

>"Yeah, he's right about that."

>"Weawwy a stawwi-yun? Wike Fwuffy?"

>"Well, not much like you. You're a good fluffy, Rus, and he was a very bad one."

>"But him stawwi-yun?"

>"Yep."

>Rus' eyes light up.

>"Nice mistah... can... can hoomins do same fing fow Wusty?"

>"Huh?" You're officially gobsmacked. He can't mean...

>"Can hoomins gif Wusty miwkie pwaces?"

>He does.

>"Rusty... there are lots of ways to feed your babies. You don't need to make milk for them."

>"Wusty knoh. But... Winkie nu 'stand dat."
>He shifts closer, lowering his voice.
>"She fink hew babbehs gonna haf tummeh-owwies, get wonges-sweepies, because she haf miwkie-pwace owwies."
>He looks over at the restlessly-dozing Winkie.
>"Wusty wan hewp wifey. If Winkie see dat Wusty gut miwkie pwaces, den maybeh she 'stand dat babbehs get miwkies uffew way. Maybeh she nu haf saddies an scawdies nu mowe."

>You open and close your mouth.
>The idea of such a masculine-looking fluffy even contemplating such a thing, let alone arguing for it, is kind of mind-melting.

>"But won't you feel weird, Rus? What if other fluffies laugh at you?"

>Rusty sits up a little straighter.
>"Wusty nu cawe," he says stoutly.
>Wusty knoh Wusty am stawwi-yun. An Wusty wuv wifey. Wuv mawes. Wifey an mawes haf miwkie-pwaces. Miwkie-pwaces nu am stupie ow ugwy. Wusty nu 'shamed fow be wittew bit wike mawes wen mawe an babbehs nee' dat."

>Long speech for a fluffy. You're impressed.

>"Well, look, Rus, I can't promise anything. But I'll talk to the vet for you, okay?"
>"Otay! Fankoo, nicey mistah!"

>The vet is impressed with Rus' paternal instincts
>He's also been wanting to try inducing lactation in another male
>He's thrilled to have a volunteer this time.

>"As long as we use the absolute minimum of hormones, and stop as soon as they get their teeth, there should be no real harm," he says.
>"If the udders bother him, we can do a reduction later on. Everything else should self-correct."

>After giving Rusty a checkup, he okays the jabs and the laced kibble.
>Within a week, Rusty is starting to aquire a bit of a rack.
>Even the near catatonic Periwikle notices.

>"Hubby! Wat dems? Dem wook wike miwkie pwaces," she says wonderingly.
>She gently pokes him with a hoof.

>"Dem Wusty's nyu miwkie pwaces! Daddah gonna gif miwkies tuu."

>"Stawwi-yun can gif miwkies? Hao stawwi-yun gif miwkies?"

>"Am hoomin majik! Hoomins gif pointy-owwies, gif majik nummies. Wet Fwuffy gwow miwkie pwaces."

>"Am stawwi-yun miwkies gud fow babbehs?"

>"Dey same as mawe miwkies."

>"Den... den Mummah's babbehs nu haf tummeh-owwies? Nu be hung'y babbehs, an fink Mummah nu wuv dems? Nu take fowefah sweepies?"

>"Nu! Mummah wiww gif miwkies much as can, an Daddah wiww gif tuu, and babbehs aww haf happeh tummehs!"

>"Wusty du dis fow Mummah an babbehs? Wahh! Pewiwinkie wuv Wusty! Wusty bestes hubby inna WOWWD!"

>You watch the couple hug – or rather you watch Rusty hug Periwinkle, and Periwinkle waggle her leggies in his general direction. She's a bit too big to reach him now.

>Over the coming days, you watch Winkie go from near-catatonic to bubbly and vivacious.
>Finally starts acting like a regular fluffy mummah
>Hugging her belly, singing and burbling happily.
>Normally that sort of thing makes you want to barf
>But you figure that Winkie's earned it.
>So's Rusty.

>In the fullness of time, Winkie delivers a healthy litter of four.
>Not a huge number, but more than she could have fed on her own.

>"Do you want to try and nurse the babies, Rus?" you ask the proud father.

>He looks at you as if you're simple.
>"Nu can gif miwkies yet," he says.

>"Why not?"

>He waves a hoof towards Bandit, then to his own head.

>"Hoomin nu gif Fwuffy haiw-fingy yet. Wywe teww Fwuffy dat haiw-fingy am fow wet stawwi-yun gif bestes miwkies."

>"Hair-thingy...?"
>You begin to explain that Bandit's hair-bow has nothing to do with milk production
>But the harder you try, the more the anxious, stubborn look on Rusty's face intensifies.
>There will be no explaining anything to him right now.
>You decide to cut the Gordian knot.
>Some gauze bandages provide Rusty with the hair-bow he needs
>And a matching one for Winkie.
>They gaze lovingly from the nursing babies to each other
>From each other to the babies.

>Sometimes other fluffies do laugh.
>Sometimes they do make fun.
>Only the newest residents, though.
>The ones who suffered with Winkie through those uncertain weeks are just happy to see things turn out well.
>And the new fluffies only mock once:
>Lyle's penetrating voice and arsenal of insults can dissolve even the meanest fluffy.

>("Waaaaahhh! Wy meanie fwuffy caww Fwuffy a 'poopie-smewwin mummah-enfin baggie uf bawkie-munstah nawtee-miwkies'? Fwuffy am gud fwuffy!"

>"Huuhuuhuuu! Fwuffy nu am 'awse-faced sheepie-munstah dingewbewwy'! Fwuffy haf chest-owwies nao! Nee huggiiiies!")

>The loving couple don't even seem to hear them.
>They sit side by side
>Shoulder to shoulder
>Feeding three babies at a time, while a fourth dozes in his mother's belly-fluff
>Or his dad's.

>You don't know if Mrs. Nelson will be able to go home again
>You don't know if they'll be able to go back to her if she does.
>You don't know what the heck you're going to do with Lyle.

>One thing you do know, though:
>Periwinkle is right.

>Rusty really is best hubby
>And as much of a stallion as he ever was.

***